Altered
by mylittlewindowsill
Summary: When a devastating head injury renders John more like his "high functioning sociopath" friend, he and Sherlock must re-learn how to navigate the troublesome waters of their relationship. But when a serial murderer turns up in London and begins killing off the disabled and the imperfect, John's very life may be at stake. Can Sherlock solve the case in time to save him?


_AN: I am not a medical professional and I've taken the liberty to slightly alter a certain medical condition to suit my needs and this story. I'm trying to keep it as realistic as possible and I'm sorry if someone is bothered by the way I've meddled with it._

_Loads of thanks to my beta, Haelia, without whom I couldn't have gotten here. I also want to thank cavi-tea for supporting me when I first thought about this six months ago._

* * *

Searing pain in his left shoulder, spreading down his arm, along his collarbone.

His vision blurred momentarily as he fought to keep his balance and tried to think of an effective counter-attack. John had always been good at hand-to-hand combat but even his military training couldn't save him once the opponent had discovered his weakness and used it to his full advantage. The ruthless blow on his wounded shoulder was promptly followed by a kick in the gut, which mercilessly sent John flying backwards.

He felt the glass of the window shattering against his back. He saw Sherlock knocking out the other one of the thieves and their eyes locked. John had always found the detective's eyes to be endlessly captivating. Right then, wide with something that very much seemed like horror, they were impossibly green.

A fraction of a second had never felt as long but then, without a warning, the moment was suddenly over; their eye contact brutally broken as John fell. He wondered if it would turn out to be their last.

John heard Sherlock calling his name. He wanted to answer. He wanted to tell Sherlock he was alright. Lie that it wasn't that long a drop. John opened his mouth but the words didn't come fast enough and he felt like he was falling again, farther down. Through the pavement? He couldn't tell.

There was someone hovering over him. John wanted to tell them he was fine, that he had endured worse. His tongue was too thick and his eyelids grew heavier with each exhale. He knew it was important to stay awake and he blinked with effort, hoping it would help him see more clearly. It seemed it had gotten foggy since they had stepped into the building just about twenty minutes ago.

_Don't worry, Sherlock. All fine, _was the last thing he thought before staying conscious became much too difficult and darkness engulfed him.

* * *

John was woken by the acrid smell of iodoform and the nagging feeling of someone looking at him. The bed he was lying on was too hard and awfully unfamiliar. There was an IV drip on his arm and he wanted to rip it off. It itched.

John feigned sleep for a few more moments. He felt like he'd been run over by a train and he tried to remember what had led to this but the last memory he could recall was running through London with Sherlock. Two thieves had managed to clear three jewellery shops within a week. Sherlock had had a moment of epiphany and together they had headed to the next target. The thieves had quite quickly realised they weren't alone and that's when the chase began.

John opened his eyes and groaned at the brightness of the hospital lights. Did they really have to be that bright? It wasn't as if they needed to operate on anyone here. Within seconds, Sherlock was at his side. "John. _John. _How are you feeling?"

"Quite horrible, to be honest." His voice was hoarse, croaky, and his throat was dry. He licked his lips with a tongue that felt like sandpaper and swallowed. Sherlock offered him a bottle of water and John took it with a nod of thanks, drinking greedily before turning to the man at his side once more. John noted he didn't look exactly fresh either.

There were dark circles under Sherlock's eyes and his burgundy silk shirt was thoroughly rumpled. His hair was slightly greasy and his eyes were rimmed with red. One of his hands was gripping the railing of the hospital bed with white knuckles while the other was cupping his knee as if holding onto it – or holding back? His posture was rigid and his gaze keen and intense. Under different circumstances John might have asked whether Sherlock was on something.

John took another look at Sherlock's unusually ragged clothing. Huh. It seemed the chase after the jewellery thieves had probably not taken place earlier that day or possibly even the day before. "What happened?" John asked as he recapped the bottle and set it on the table. "I remember running after them from the jewellery shop and then it's all black or foggy at best."

"We followed them into an abandoned block of flats that they were using as a temporary base and were forced to fight since they refused to admit their defeat. You were thrown out of a window and have been unconscious for two days." Sherlock's voice was surprisingly quiet and John was incredibly glad. God, his head was pounding.

"And the thieves?"

"Both in custody, waiting for their trials."

"Mmm." John ignored the tiny hammers trying to break their way through his skull as he sat up. He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples with his fingertips. He could still feel Sherlock's eyes on him and was quite positive that was just adding to the ache.

There was a knock at the door but he couldn't be arsed to answer it; they'd come right in anyway. He heard the door open, then close again.

"Good afternoon, Dr. Watson! So good to see you awake!" the nurse greeted happily and John winced at the far too high pitch of her voice. He didn't bother to cover up his irritation as he opened his eyes. He glared at her with an agitated frown while she checked his chart and chattered about something as irrelevant as the weather.

"Would you please shut up?" he asked when he just couldn't stand it anymore. Why the hell should he care if yesterday had been the warmest day of the spring so far? Hearing about it wouldn't change the fact that he had been unconscious at the time and it most definitely wasn't making him feel any better.

Two pairs of eyes turned to stare at him. One set wide and shocked while dark eyebrows furrowed over the other set in something akin to distress. John decided not to dwell on that.

"Yes, I... I'm sorry," the nurse stuttered and flushed scarlet, brushing a lock of blonde hair behind her ear hastily. "I'll get Dr. Melbourne for you." John let out a long-drawn sigh as she quickly left the room.

"What?" he asked as he noticed Sherlock was still staring at him with that strange expression. John didn't think he'd seen that on him before.

"Nothing. That just seemed quite out of character," Sherlock replied with a shrug of his shoulders and leaned back in his chair. "It's no wonder you're irritable, though, with that headache of yours." There was something off about him and John found it really hard to put his finger on what. His posture was unusually tense and even when his eyebrows took their natural position – quite far apart from each other, if John were to be absolutely honest – the look in his eyes didn't change. He'd seen that look on other people whose family or friends had been in hospital. He'd just never realised it would be something that Sherlock would bring to bear.

"Frankly, I couldn't care less about the beautifully sunny days I've missed while I was out of it. I want an aspirin and a cup of tea, preferably at home."

"I'm afraid we can't let you go just yet, Dr. Watson," a male voice pointed out from the doorway and both men turned to look at him. The nurse was back, but with a middle-aged man with a touch of silver on his temples and a slightly round middle. He regarded the two of them with a calm, pleasant expression. "I'm Dr. Melbourne. Hello."

"Tell me you've got some aspirin with you," John muttered and Dr. Melbourne chuckled in response, nodding to the nurse who then left the room again.

"We're going to have to run some tests," the doctor began and gave John a sympathetic look that he supposed was meant to make him feel better. John nodded silently and wished he would just cut that out and get on with it. "You hit your head quite hard when you fell and we do not fully know the extent of the damage to your brain. All we know for sure is that your frontal lobe has been damaged. You're extremely lucky to be alive and walking."

"Oh." John stared at the man at the foot of his bed for a while before shrugging. "I feel fine; apart from the horrific headache, of course."

"Yes, well, naturally we have to examine this further," Dr. Melbourne pressed with a smile noticeably tighter than before.

"Of course," John replied and turned to look at Sherlock, who was studying him with yet another frown and he wondered why the man was acting in such a way. He'd never been like this, at least not in John's presence.

There was a knock at the door again which was quickly followed by the nurse entering the room. She handed him the pills with a glass of water and John uttered the obligatory thank you before knocking both back.

_Bloody finally, _he thought with a sigh. He could almost feel the pain lessening already.


End file.
